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Monday, August 20, 2012

The box does not sit still. The box moves. The parts assemble and plans assemble. People go to work and find time to sleep.

The
box knows weather and strangers’ hands. Once in a while another box is overlaid
the box. The box holds air, it holds words, it holds a body. The body corrupts,
renews. The body leaves the box. It returns to say “box” and lingeringly leaves
yet again. It will not return again.

The
box is lifted by interested hands and carried a distance. It is set down for
the night under a tree, or in the corner of a shop, or in someone’s garage. I
hear a tricycle being pedaled in circles.

The
box does not sit still. I say “box” and invite you to say “box.” You say
alphabet or commercial undertaking in the sense of a coordinated structure
involving a set of documents proscribed by the rule of law. Here is
black-and-white footage of the Russian Premier standing at attention at the de-planing
of the box. Those men are playing an anthem, but that is not the box and cannot
be blamed on me.

Here
I am, and there I was, and here I am again. This is rock and roll. This is
swing.

Once
upon a time a box into a box, first in parts and then the whole. Once a breathy
pause and, “box.” She suddenly stood and turned and scampered over the hills. I
looked for her where I knew to find her to hear her say, “box.” I gave myself
over to the memory of having failed. Now I remember her saying “box” as if I
can hear her saying it. I have a good job and should find time to explain
exactly what I mean. I am certainly capable of such movements.

Just
like earth, the box has the kind of personality one ascribes to it. I love
using the word “ascribes” because “ a scribes” is allusive while grammatically wrong
while exactly the thing itself or the person we might be or have been, and the
“a” in “ascribes” really stands out when I say it.

The
box is somewhat proper to all including the linguist but cannot be held in one
place either.

O
for summer and the gathering of bells countenance by bell-makers and
bell-swingers, of wine poured out for hands and words in common for an age and
a summer.

So
I write what I have not said which is this and what is now. The box for a word
for the box. Box not because but then, and say you knew, but you never knew in
the way one said now “box” and being not-the-box at once.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

My first
serious or concentrated thoughts and discussions of God in and without the
context of philosophy occured with Mervyn Fergusen while working at C.B.G.B.’s
in NYC where I formed among other opinions that God has a sense of humor.

My
experience with the Roman Catholic church has not changed that opinion.

It would be
a laughable understatement to say, that He gives us just enough rope with
which to hang ourselves. Think upon it in light of Judas and it isn’t that
funny. See that the parenthetical cites the exception. That is proper but not the real
work.

To humor,
the spirit that is perfect and calls us to truth. To the neighbor, the lover,
the self who forms plans. Time goes by and more often than not we imagine our
wagons still hitched in its cleansing wake.

I cannot
laugh with God. I am the joke. I am partially formed, and devoted in the manner
of the sparrow and a seed. I am complete in parts to the eye that sees a whole
where, in fact, regions of passion idle and curdle like the Pacific in a
tidepool.

To laughter
and the threads that bind. A glance to seal an evening’s rest. Faces line up to
say, Me not the other, like musical notes. I have eyes that see but I will not
take myself literally.

You can be
discrete and knowing, of course. You can make a habit of nodding. Nod away. At
me, my wife and child. At God. You will waste no one’s time. You will remain
unembarrassed and unimpressed. Nothing can shake the nodding man. He is awake
and not awake. He falls for nothing and is never erect. There is no trouble
where there is no concern. The heart is an ancient vessel.

Original
for years, a face takes its rest in a concrete television set. Your work makes
of flowers jewels set into the eye cavities of remote though adjacent deities.
If only one could set it to a score – but, see. It is done. More glory. More
taking away.

Laughter and the short excuse. I was lost. I was hurt. I forgot.
That wasn’t me.

That was always me. I was
always there. I will always be there. I can forget everything else, I will not forget that.